Sunday, 13 September 2009

Relative escapism

So as many of you will know, I've spent most of my teenage years hating the house, county, and basically everything about the place I live in. I've been dreaming of getting out, running away and leaving for the city since I was old enough to go on trains by myself.

In just under four days, this dream will come true. I'll leave Dorset, pack up my posessions, and move into a university-owned flat in London, ready for my first year at Kingston. And yet, I honestly, truly, really don't want to.

When I first started dreaming of London, in my mind I'd turn up to a friend's house with a small bag, some clothes, a guitar and a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Over time, this dream changed, Jack Daniel's became Scotch, the guitar became first a ukulele, then an accordion, and the clothes got progressively weirder. In short, I built my dream and concept of London around who I wanted to be.

Where this became a problem is when that dream became tangible. By the beginning of this summer, it was definite. Come September, I would definitely be moving in to my own* place with a decent laptop, a host of instruments (including an accordion) in tow, and feeling pretty damn good about myself.

But it was not to be. Instead, I'm arriving on Thursday, already broke, laptop-less, accordion-less, with no smart clothes that fit me any more after the splurgiest of summer splurges, a mullet (courtesy of the well-trained folks at Toni & Guy), and a broken tambourine.

Having had my wildest dreams presented to me on a silver platter, the idea of coming back down to earth, and arriving at uni the same formless, style-less, wannabe kleptomaniac musician I've struggled most of my life to not be is depressing beyond measure, and my determination to not have to experience it is reaching the dizzying heights whereupon I'm finally ready to admit that I fucking miss the easy escape afforded by drugs.**

One of these days I'm going to wriggle up on dry land.


*Okay, so maybe not 'my own', but shh.
**I'm truly sorry if this sentence makes no sense. I got bored around 'and a broken tambourine' and I fucked off to go get drunk.

Tuesday, 8 September 2009

Why Me and Tumblr will never be BFFs.

After ranting about it so passionately in yesterday's post, I then spent the evening pruning, editing, and generally molesting my Tumblr, and I came across my big issue with it. It lacks interactivity.

Most people opposed to Twitter criticise it because it appears, on the surface, to be simply another way to inform the world of your every thought, [bowel] movement, and irritation, no matter how inane they may be. Unfortunately, many times, they are right. A quick glance at most of the accounts participating in the daily rape of the trending topics show nothing more than: "Goin out." "Out wit m8s" "Back from bein out wit m8s!! LUV YA GIRLIES!" with almost no replies to anyone (except maybe to point out the fucking obvious to someone so as to maintain that air of quiet satisfaction such people always seem to carry around with them, the twats), on their pages.

Happily though, a lot of users do interact, even if it's just to promote their business, and the site is better for it. Such interactions may indeed start with an inane 'breakfast' tweet (as the world at large seems to believe Twitter is solely made of) but will, as I recently experienced, rapidly move on to other topics, and both parties can be enriched or at least mildly entertained by the whole thing.

Tumblr, however, seems to have briefly considered this idea with it's 'Tumblarity', but thrown it out of the window. The closest possibility I've yet to find of interaction is a Facebook-like 'Like'* option, and then the 'Reblog' facility. Even if I am just being thick** the whole site appears to be based around the concept of 'Look at this. It's pretty damn sweet/cool/philosophical/4-Channically brilliant, why don't you try it out for yourself?'.

Which, don't get me wrong, I'm all in favour of. I just find myself waiting for comments (like I do on here. Refresh. Tweet. Refresh. Cry. Repeat.) whenever I post something of my own making (like this John Green/Exzibit macro I was so unrighteously proud of) and then throwing a little paddy when I can't comment on someone else's inspired post/reblog without reblogging it myself.

Anyway, in matters of the (almost) non-nerd, as well as the last in a series of lovely and delightful postcards and letters I've had from the always fabulous Jess Young, whose photography you should totally check out, I got my copy of Driftless Pony Club's 'Expert' today in the post.

There was a debate posted by Alex Day some time ago, on the DFTBA Records blog, about the packaging their CDs came in. At the time I'd only bought 'Taking Leave' by Alan Lastufka and Tom Milson, which came in a sort of hybrid between a full jewel case and a slip case.*** As Taking Leave was an EP, like Expert, I was expecting a similar casing for the DPC EP. It came, however, in a slip case (it was signed by WheezyWaiter, which made it all okay) which I must admit being a bit disappointed in. A slip case may be much kinder to my cramped CD rack, but I do miss the fullness of a jewel case or hybrids.

The musical content is what really matters, and it's brilliant, everything I wanted from the band, and endlessly repeatable. I just can't help feeling let down by the packaging. It feels like a freebie, and I half feel like I might as well have just bought it from iTunes.

Anyway, I'm out bitchez.


* Convoluted solely for the opportunity of a legitimate 'double like'. They're worth millions.
**And please tell me if I am, it's a common occurence
*** There probably is an actual name for it. It'll always be 'The Hybrid' to me, though.